Overheated
by Feyna
Summary: America has noticed that Canada has been feeling down lately. Being the heroic big brother he is, he takes the matter in his hands and drags him out of the house for some brotherly bonding. In Texas. In the middle of summer. Too bad Canada, a northern nation, doesn't exactly have a good heat tolerance. Needless to say, things don't go as planned.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes** **:** This is the first story I've ever published. It basically has no plot whatsoever, I only wanted to write a fluffy piece about America and Canada. It also has no romantic connotation, seeing that America and Canada are brothers.

It was meant to be a one-shot, but it ended up being much longer than intended, so I decided to split it into three parts.

 **Disclaimer** **:** Hetalia belongs to its creator Hidekaz Himaruya, and credits for the cover art go to kenlo (pixiv id=2892327)

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

Matthew Williams's day couldn't possibly get any worse.

Actually, it wasn't only that day – the whole month had been positively horrible for the poor representative of Canada.

First of all, it was summer. And Matthew didn't exactly like summer.

Oh, it wasn't like Canada never got any warm, nor even unbearably hot summers, unlike some idiot seemed to be firmly convinced of, but Matthew himself had never been fond of the heat.

There was no doubt in his mind that winter was a far better season: the crisp, cool air that seemed to cleanse his lungs at each breath, the way every exhalation condensed into a small, white puff, the slippery ice that forced people to carefully measure each step, the sensation of the soft, fresh snow under the soles of his boots – not to mention the fact that it was easy to cover up if it got too cold, but in the heat? The only option was to suck it up, take refuge in a building with air conditioning, and pray for the heatwave to pass soon.

That summer had been so far particularly taxing for Canada: it was far hotter than usual, and it was lasting a lot longer than it would have been possible to put up with. And, following the relentless heat, fires had started developing in the forests. Thankfully, none of them had managed to reach any town or city so far, but Canada was strongly connected to his land, and the devastation, while not unbearable, was taking its toll on his body, leaving him constantly tired and achy.

Then, there had been a row of World Conferences, which Canada was still wondering why he had even bothered to attend: as usual, he had been ignored most of the time, sat on by Russia, beaten up by Cuba because he had mistaken him for America (he had apologized afterwards, but the bruises hadn't completely faded yet), and even England and France had managed to forget about him a few times. It wasn't even like the conferences had been useful at something, like solving at least one of the issues they had been summoned for. No, all they had achieved had been arguing with each other and getting on everybody's nerves. The only concrete result of that hellish week had been that Matthew had fallen dramatically behind with his own country's paperwork, which was the reason he had barely gotten any sleep or food in the last ten days.

Then, that idiot brother of his had decided that he needed to get involved.

Oh, it had been quite nice at first: when Alfred had called to ask him if he wanted to hang out (more like demanded him to do it, actually), Matthew had been overjoyed. It wasn't every day that America remembered he existed, let alone had some spare time for him. Which was why he had gladly pulled out an all-nighter to finish off his paperwork, then had headed towards the house they shared on the border after a quick shower, without even bothering with breakfast.

Things had started going downhill from there.

Matthew should have realized something was horribly wrong the second his brother had started dragging him to his private jet, without offering any explanation or even listening to his questions.

When they had finally landed in Texas, the nightmare had started.

The thing was: Texas wasn't hot. _Hot_ wasn't strong enough to describe that kind of climate, the way the sun beat inclemently on Matthew's skin, making rivulets of sweat run down his back, his forehead, basically any surface on his body, the way each breath he took was only a stagnant, heavy gasp of moisture that left him with the feeling of not getting enough air, the heat that made him feel dizzy and heavy. It was like stepping into the deepest pit of hell.

Of course, America felt nothing of that. Heedless of his brother's complaints _("Come on, Mattie, stop being a wuss, it's only a little hot!")_ he had dragged him around under the scorching sun, apparently convinced that nothing could cheer up Matthew more than a ride in the prairies.

Now, there was nothing really wrong with that. Matthew loved riding, and the horses Alfred had rented were sweet and agreeable, but. Matthew loved riding, yes. In the _woods_. In places that were nicely _shadowed_ by the trees, not in the middle of the. Freaking. Desert.

Clearly, Alfred hadn't heard him when he had tried to complain, or suggest that they searched for less exposed paths. No, his wonderful older brother had just gone on with his plans with single-minded determination, all while enthusiastically blabbering about something (how great his politics were, how great his teams were… Matthew had tuned him out after a while, too focused on trying not to collapse while leading his horse).

Finally, Alfred had decided that he was hungry, so they had returned the horses and stopped for a late lunch. At that point, Matthew had been ready to throw himself at the asphalt – or better yet, the floor of a nice, cool café or burger joint or restaurant or whatever, honestly, as long as the air conditioning was on.

Pity that Alfred had decided that such a great sunny day would be wasted indoors, so he had elected to eat outside, dragging Matthew with him. The Canadian didn't even have the strength to complain anymore.

Which was why he was now slumped against his chair, with his t-shirt damp with sweat and stuck to the seat, while Alfred slurped down his hamburgers, rambling on and on about something. Matthew hummed along, pretending he was listening.

A greasy hamburger sat untouched in the plate in front of him. Matthew hadn't even tried a bite. His head was pounding along with his heartbeat, and his stomach churned with waves of nausea. Even the mere _sight_ of food was enough to make the bile rise to the back of his throat.

Canada diverted his gaze from his plate, pressing a hand to his stomach as if it could somehow quell the uneasiness. It didn't, but it was worth a try.

He had _tried_ to tell Alfred he wasn't feeling all right, he didn't feel like eating, but his brother had ignored him, as usual.

 _'Well, there is no way I'm going to eat this greasy stuff,'_ Canada said to himself, surly. Normally, he would have at least tried to take a bite, to please Alfred if anything, but at that moment, he was one hundred percent sure that the action would have resulted in him throwing up.

(A part of his mind, growing with irritation, couldn't help but think that America would have _deserved_ him vomiting, preferably on his new, priced shoes. _That_ would teach his brother to drag him around. But Matthew was also quite sure that throwing up wouldn't have sat right with his headache, so it was probably better if he avoided it.)

Alfred took the last hamburger _(the sixth? How on earth did he eat so much?)_ from his plate.

Matthew knew it was his chance.

Nonchalantly, grimacing a bit when his fingers touched a greasy drop of sauce, he took his brother's plate and swapped it with his one.

Alfred didn't realize it. _Of course_ he didn't.

Without stopping or slowing down for a second, some minutes later America grabbed his brother's hamburger and tore a big chunk of greasy meat, making a few pieces of salad and sauce drop on his plate.

Matthew watched with sick fascination as the older nation wolfed down his meal, taking another bite before even swallowing the previous one. Small crumbles of bread, meat and salad rained down on his plate. Alfred's face was smeared with grease and ketchup, but he either didn't notice or didn't mind. Matthew was more keen to believe in the first option.

All the while, America kept talking, giving Canada a front view of the half-eaten food in his mouth. Another wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him.

Matthew wrapped his arms around his abdomen and curled on himself with a moan, tearing his eyes away from the disgusting display in front of him.

His gaze caught the blurry image of a young waitress coming toward their table. It was so hot that her form seemed to waver in front of his eyes, Matthew had to squint to get a decent look.

The young woman – now Canada could see her, she was the youngest of the waitresses, no older than twenty – stopped in front of their table, her face flushed from the heat. She still managed a weak smile as she placed a glass in front of him.

"Here is your drink," she said.

Matthew stared quizzically at the glass. When had he… Oh, he remembered now. He had ordered a glass of icy coke, but in his haste to eat, Alfred had knocked it on the floor before Matthew could take a single sip.

Canada turned to thank the girl, but she was already gone, hurrying to get back to the air conditioning. He couldn't blame her.

Sighing, Matthew idly spun the glass in his hands. The iced beverage felt blissfully cool to the contact, but actually _drinking_ it? That had seemed nice when he had ordered it, he recalled being so horribly _thirsty_ , but right then, with his head pounding and his stomach churning, Canada couldn't bring himself to take a single sip.

The boy placed it back on the table and collapsed against the chair, groaning softly.

He was feeling _awful_. And _God_ , why was it so hot? It was like he was about to catch fire, even _breathing_ was a struggle. At least, Matthew realized dimly, he had stopped sweating buckets, but he didn't actually feel any better.

"Hey, aren't you going to drink that?"

Blinking to clear his vision from the black spots that had started claiming it, Canada slowly raised his head, but he wasn't fast enough.

With a fluid motion, Alfred tore the glass from his weak hold and gulped down its content. Canada could only stare as his brother gave a loud belch and relaxed against the chair, patting his stomach with a satisfied, dumb smile painted on his face. He stayed still for a moment before grabbing a couple of tissues to wipe out the mess around his mouth, his expression never changing.

Matthew gritted his teeth as a wave of irritation threatened to overwhelm him. Yes, he hadn't been intentioned to drink that coke, but America couldn't just… Oh, who was he trying to fool? Of course Alfred could take the drink from him without bothering to wait for an answer. He was _America_ , after all.

"Nice meal, wasn't it?"

And there it was again. That dumb smile on his brother's face.

No, it hadn't been a nice meal. In fact, it had been outright awful, _Matthew_ was feeling awful, but America wasn't going to listen.

 _Patience. Just be patient, soon, you are going to be able to get home._

It was proving to be surprisingly difficult, with the way his head was throbbing.

"Well then!" Alfred went on, not even bothering to check if his brother was actually listening. "What should we do now?"

Matthew pecked up a little.

America was actually asking him?

"Al, I…"

"Mmh, let me think…"

Oh, of course he wasn't. When were America's questions not rhetorical?

"Oh, I know!"

Alfred's face lit up with excitement.

Matthew tried to swallow, but his throat was parched.

"Al…" he croaked pitifully.

The soft sound was completely ignored.

"We should play baseball!"

Canada paled at his brother's words.

 _Oh God, no. Not this. Everything but this._

Being dragged around under the sun, being forced to sit outside as America pigged down on his meal, was something he could deal with, but _baseball_? No, he couldn't. There was no way he was going to able to endure a whole session of his brother basically using him as a punching bag. Hell, America had managed _to break one of his ribs_ the last time! And Canada had been healthy back then, not barely able to stand.

"Al, that's really…"

"Yes, that's perfect! I know just the right place!"

"Al, I'm sorry, but…"

"Aren't I the best big brother in the world?!"

No. No, enough was enough.

Alfred was still grinning goofily, ready to be showered with praises.

Ignoring an excruciating stab of pain that went through his skull, Matthew slammed his fist on the table. He wasn't even feeling sorry anymore.

Only then Alfred's expression changed, and he finally looked at his brother, not right through him.

"Mattie? What's wrong?" he asked, blinking owlishly.

"I don't want to play baseball, Al," said Matthew, softly but firmly. At least, he hoped. He was far too exhausted to mind his words.

"Why not?" Alfred looked confused.

Matthew could feel the last tendrils of patience slipping away.

"Do you really think I wanted to play? That I wanted to do any of the things you forced me to do today, actually?" he hissed.

He tried to sit straighter, but his head spun and his body wavered. He had to place his hands flat on the table for balance.

Alfred's expression shifted from confusion to annoyance.

"Oh come on, Mattie, that's just rude. I did this for you, ya know? I could have easily stayed home to play video games or something, or actually get some work done… you could at least show some gratitude!"

Canada almost chocked at his brother's words. His own annoyance was being swiftly replaced with cold fury. He could hardly think straight, with his head pounding and his stomach rolling, but there was something he knew with certainty.

"For me? You did this for me? Ha! Stop fooling yourself. You never do anything for somebody else, it's just you and your giant ego, at least do me a favour and admit it!"

America's eyes narrowed.

"You know what? Fuck this, you ungrateful little ass. What do you think, that I don't have anything else to do? Do you even realize how much work goes into being such a great country as I am? I had to do tons of work in advance to get this free day! And I did it only for you! You looked so glum at the last World Conference… I only wanted to cheer you up! But if that's how you answer to this… Then fine! You can just wallow in your misery, I was only trying to help!"

At that point, Matthew couldn't restrain himself any longer.

Propping himself on his hands, he jerked to his feet, ignoring the way the world swayed and blinking away the black spots that completely filled his vision at the motion.

"I can't believe you!" he hissed, "I can't believe how self-centred you can be." His voice grew in volume at each word. "To help me? Is this what you really think? Please, stop fooling yourself. You didn't really want to help me, you only wanted to feel better about yourself. Did you even try to stop and think what could have actually made me happy? I'll answer this for you: you didn't. You would have at least tried if you were actually thinking about _me_ , but you just decided to do what you liked, and deluded yourself into thinking I would have enjoyed it, too. Texas? Fucking Texas? You know I don't like heat. Or at least, you should, but clearly you don't because you never try to look any further than your own nose. Well, I'm not going to let you drag me around this time! I'm so fucking done with this. You aren't a hero, Alfred, you are just an egocentric asshole. You never think about anybody but yourself! And I'm fucking tired of this. I'm going home, don't bother trying to help me. Thank you for nothing, you hoser!"

Without sparing another glance at his brother's petrified face, Matthew turned around and stomped away.

Sometimes, he really couldn't believe America. He was his brother and Canada loved him, most of the time, but _this_ time he had really crossed the line. Matthew had already been having an awful time, he didn't need Alfred to get involved.

The pain in his head had grown to the point where each breath was agonizing, piercing his skull like a blade. Matthew didn't know how it was possible, but it was what he was feeling at that moment. Even breathing had gotten increasingly difficult, he dimly realized that he wasn't getting enough air, he couldn't breathe in deep enough.

The boy stumbled. His stomach was rolling, the growing nausea tugging at his last restraints, and when he tried to swallow, he realized his mouth was dry.

And who had turned on that radio? It was only statics, why didn't they change the station, the noise was making it so hard to concentrate, to _think_ …

Canada stopped as the world teetered on its axis.

He tried to blink, but that did nothing to improve his blurry vision, nor did it send away the grey edges that were swallowing it.

Suddenly, his legs buckled under him. Matthew briefly marvelled at why he wasn't standing anymore but kneeling, then he realized he was falling, his vision going completely black.

He didn't feel his body hit the ground, nor the panicked shouts that soon followed.

 **(word count: 2,905)**

* * *

 **Notes** **:**

I hope you enjoyed this! Next part will probably come in a few days, it's already written, but I have to edit it.  
(Long story short, I wrote this back in July, after I was stuck on a train without AC with a temperature of 40°C (about 104°F, for reference). I hate Trenitalia. But well, at least it gave me a creativity boost, I guess.)

English isn't my first language, so I apologize for any mistake. I'm trying my best, but I'm pretty sure I'll still miss something. Please correct me if you spotted anything wrong or some oddly-phrased sentences, one of the reasons I'm writing this is to improve my English :)

And please leave some feedback :)

 **12/12/2016:** I corrected some (read: far too many) mistakes pointed out by SailorHikarinoMu. Thank you, you are the best! :) I really can't thank you enough :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes** **:** Thanks to anybody who read, followed, reviewed or put last chapter in his favourites! I don't know if you realize how happy it made me :)

This chapter is from America's POV, and quite longer than the first one. There is also a cameo from England and France.

I forgot to mention it in the first chapter, but my knowledge in the medical field isn't that extensive, so there might be some inaccuracies, sorry about that.

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

Alfred F Jones, the United States of America, wasn't crying. Nope. Absolutely not. Those tears that glimmered at the corners of his eyes had nothing to do with his emotional state.

And he _definitely_ didn't sniff.

It was just that… Canada was so _impossible_ at times. Considerate, polite and soft-spoken? As if. In his dreams, maybe. America couldn't wrap his mind around how his younger brother had managed to fool so many nations into thinking he was one of the sweetest, kindest soul that inhabited the planet.

Okay, maybe it was because he actually was. Most of the time, at least. And then, without any warning, he would fly off the handle as he had done a few moments earlier. Alfred couldn't believe he had been so _hurtful_. Not when he had done absolutely nothing to deserve it, especially.

In spite of common belief, America actually always noticed Canada. Well, _almost_ always. But the point was, he had noticed how dejected and tired his little brother had looked during the meetings. He hadn't had time to address the issue then, but he hadn't forgotten about it, which was why he had decided to do something nice to cheer Matthew up.

But instead of being grateful, his little brother had decided to throw a hissy fit. Sometimes, America really couldn't believe him.

 _'Well, serves him right,'_ he thought surly, shaking his head, _'If he wants to keep crying over himself, I won't stop him.'_

The thought didn't make him feel any better.

Alfred was so absorbed in his thoughts that he completely ignored a dull thud, but the sudden shout that followed it jerked him back to reality.

"Oh my God, somebody call an ambulance!"

America jumped to his feet, scanning his surroundings.

"What happened?" he asked urgently, immediately pinpointing the person who had given the alarm – a middle-aged, plump woman with greying hair.

He actually didn't need to ask. A moment later, his eyes fell on the spot the woman was pointing, where two passers-by were converging, summoned by her shouts.

A slim form was sprawled on its side on the asphalt.

The slim form of a fair-skinned boy in his late teens with his face partially obscured by wavy, glossy strawberry blond hair.

Alfred's heart missed a beat.

 _Matthew._

America didn't register the strangled gasp that seeped through his lips, nor that he had started running – the only thing that mattered at that moment was his little brother's pale, frighteningly unmoving form.

In his haste to reach him, Alfred shoved the woman away, but didn't offer any apology – he didn't have time for that.

In a moment, he skidded to his knees next to his brother, the previous quarrel completely forgotten.

"Mattie? Matthew! Answer me, Mattie!" he shouted as he shook Canada by his shoulders.

The boy's head merely lolled from side to side, unresponsive. His breathing was ragged and uneven.

America rolled him on his back, internally panicking.

 _'What happened? Was it something in Canada? An attack, a natural disaster?'_

But no, he would have heard his brother cry out in pain if it had been so. America would never forget the excruciating pain of 9/11, nor Canada's agonized screams for Halifax. It was more likely that there was something wrong with _Matthew_ , not Canada.

His trembling hand found his brother's neck.

He immediately felt his pulse, faint and erratic but there, and…

 _Shit. Shit shit shit…_

How had he not seen it before? Matthew was _burning up_.

Alfred could feel the panic seeping into his brain, but he forced himself to take a deep breath, trying to think straight. He didn't have time to panic.

His hands cupped Canada's face. The skin was frighteningly pale and dry to the touch.

 _'Heatstroke,'_ his mind supplied numbly, _'An advanced state.'_

 _How on earth_ had he not noticed until then?

A whirlwind of scenes passed through Alfred's mind, finally clicking together like the pieces of a puzzle. Matthew complaining about the heat. Matthew asking him to _please please_ get in the shades. Matthew stumbling when he got down his horse. Matthew holding his head. Matthew's flushed face and glassy eyes. Matthew wrapping his arms around his stomach. Matthew _not drinking_. Matthew being snappier than usual. Matthew wavering as he stood up.

Alfred clamped a hand over his mouth. He could feel the acrid taste of bile to the back of his throat.

 _Shit shit shit shit…_

His fault. To put it plainly, it was. His. Fault.

But he had no time to wallow in self-pity, not right then. Later, maybe, but now he had to help Matthew.

Finally tearing his eyes away from his brother's face, Alfred looked around, assessing the situation. The woman had fallen on her knees at his side, and she was bending over Matthew, her face scrunched in maternal concern. Two men had reached them, their expressions clouded with identical worry. One had a phone in his hands, his trembling fingers swiftly composing a number.

"You! Get me a taxi!" America ordered sternly.

The man started, confused. He looked about to retort, but one look at America's unwavering eyes changed his mind. It was his nation in front of him, not a simple teenager.

"And make sure it has air conditioning."

The woman gasped.

"But… shouldn't you get him to the hospital?" she asked, her voice laced with concern.

Alfred shot her a stern look, lifting Canada's upper body so that his brother was leaning against his chest. The boy's head lolled against his shoulder.

"He's my little brother, I'll get him home," he said.

Unlike the man, the woman didn't seem so easy to convince.

"Where are your parents?" she asked, her eyes wide.

Alfred gaped at her for a moment. ' _Our parents?'_ He was aware that he and Matthew looked like teenagers – technically, their bodies were biologically in their late teens – but he had never been asked that question before.

"We don't have parents!" he screeched in the end.

A little too dramatically, maybe. _Whoops_. Well, he didn't really have time for a nosy citizen of his, right then.

The woman recoiled. She looked about to say something else, but the second man intervened before she could.

"Well, we should get him inside, anyway," he said, looking critically at both Alfred and Matthew.

That was actually a good idea.

The man bent down, stretching his hands towards Matthew's legs, but Alfred stood up, cradling his little brother's limp body to his chest. The man's eyebrows rose.

"Are you sure you can do it by yourself? He looks quite thin, but he's tall. Can't be that light…"

Alfred shot him a grin.

No, Canada wasn't very light. He was only a little shorter than Alfred, and while his body was much leaner, it didn't lack muscles, but that was hardly a problem for America. He could have carried his brother effortlessly for miles.

The man frowned but followed him, staying close to his side as if ready to catch Matthew if America looked about to drop him, while the woman ran inside the diner. Alfred saw her call frantically for one of the waitresses, and the second woman's eyes widened as she talked, undoubtedly explaining her the situation.

As soon as Alfred crossed the doorway, he was hit by a gust of cool air.

There weren't many people sitting at the tables, and all of them trained their eyes on them, a few even made as if to stand up. A tall waitress in her thirties ushered Alfred to a secluded corner.

"Put him here," she said, gesturing at a sofa.

Alfred complied wordlessly before crouching next to the seat, gently tapping his brother's cheek.

"Mattie?"

There was no answer, not even a moan. The boy's breathing was still laboured.

Alfred bit his lower lip.

A slender hand placed a blue ice pack on Canada's forehead. Turning, America saw that it belonged to the young waitress who had brought them the second glass of coke before. Her dark eyes were shining with worry.

"Have you already called for an ambulance?" the older waitress asked.

"He wanted a taxi," supplied the man who had helped them inside. He was standing next to the sofa, his arms folded across his chest.

The waitress frowned at Alfred.

"Heatstroke is a very serious condition, far more serious than one would imagine at a first glance," she stated in a stern voice, "Is he your brother? You should really get him to a hospital."

 _'You really think I don't know that?!'_ America wanted to snap, but he knew she was only trying to help.

"You can't force him to go, Matthew wouldn't want to," he retorted instead.

It came out more forceful than Alfred had meant, but it was true. Canada wouldn't have wanted to be taken to a hospital. It was tricky, nations healed far too quickly for humans not to start asking questions, so they tended to take care of their injuries by themselves, or in the worst cases, they relied on few, trusted doctors.

America would have called one of his, but the one living closer to Texas was on holiday in Madagascar, and all the others were hours away. Besides, he knew how to take care of a heatstroke, and he had everything he needed at home.

His listeners' frowns deepened.

"Are you both of age?" asked the man.

Alfred nodded. Actually, he wasn't sure whether Matthew was seventeen or eighteen, but it didn't really matter, not when they both were _centuries_ old.

(A small pang of guilt twisted his stomach. Could he really be that oblivious that he didn't even know his little brother's age? But no, he had no time for that. Not now.)

The man let out a sigh, running a hand through his unkempt hair.

"…Then we can't really stop you."

A deep silence enveloped the group. The woman who had given the alarm had taken to fanning Matthew with a newspaper. There were identical expressions of deep concern etched in the lines of everybody's face, their eyes were all trained on Matthew's unconscious form.

In spite of everything, America couldn't help but feel pride swell in his chest at how helpful and nice his people were, at how they were able of such a display of concern for a boy they had never seen before.

"I mean, our uncle is a doctor," he added hastily, suddenly realizing how harsh his words had been. "He should be home right now, he had the night shift so it's his free day… He'll know what to do."

Everybody seemed to relax slightly.

"Just… don't do this again," the oldest woman sighed with a gentle shake of her head. "You kids, believing you're invincible… How long were you out in the sun for him to end up like this?"

She hadn't meant it like a reproach, it was closer to a weary remark, but it still filled Alfred with guilt. Matthew had been completely aware of his limits. He, on the other hand…

Right then, the man who had called for the taxi walked through the door. He quickly looked around, then started heading towards the people cluttered around Canada's unconscious form.

"The taxi's outside," he announced.

His light blue eyes were clouded with worry, and his forehead tightened even more when they fell on Matthew's unconscious form.

"He doesn't look good. Are you really sure…"

"Yes, our uncle is a doctor," repeated Alfred, lifting Canada into his arms.

He tried to ignore how limp he was, and how heated his forehead felt against the bare skin of his neck.

The group of people that had gathered around flanked him, following him to the door. Alfred had almost reached it when a tug to his pants stopped him. A little girl, no older than four, was looking at him with wide dark eyes.

"Is he going to be all right?"

"Lucy! Don't bother them!"

A second girl, who looked around ten and remarkably like the younger one, dragged her away.

"I'm really sorry, sir," she said, keeping a firm hold on her sister's hand.

America summoned a small smile for her.

"Nah, it's all right. Thanks for worrying, Lucy, Mattie's going to be just fine. I gotta go now, though."

Without sparing a second glance at the girls, he headed towards the taxi.

A moment before going through the door, his ears caught Lucy's voice a second time.

"Is that his big brother? Oh, then he's totally going to be fine."

Alfred's chest constricted at her words, at the absolute _certainty_ they were laced with.

Oh, yes, Mattie was going to be fine, he hadn't lied. But that had nothing to do with Alfred being there. Canada was going to be fine because he was a nation, and as such, he was going to recover. Simple as that. If it were for Alfred, he would be in an ICU by then.

As promised, a taxi was waiting for them outside. The man who had called it rushed to open the door and Alfred slid inside, setting Matthew next to him, leaning against his shoulder.

The boy had yet to regain consciousness. So close, America could hear even more the way he was wheezing, seemingly struggling with each intake of breath.

After telling the driver the address, he still managed a wave and a _'thank you'_ to all the people who had so nicely helped them, but as soon as he closed the door and the taxi pulled into the road, the smile slipped from his face.

The driver, a middle-aged, paunchy man, gave them a quizzical look through the rear mirror.

"Are you really sure you don't want to be taken to the hospital?" he asked.

For what had to be the hundredth time, Alfred shook his head.

"Just take me to that address, please. Our uncle is a doctor."

He could feel his patience thinning, he was sure he was going to start screaming if somebody asked him any more questions. Matthew needed help, not the sacred inquisition! Which was what everybody was trying to do, technically, but _still_.

Luckily, the man kept his mouth shut, even though he kept glancing at them. Alfred ignored him.

"Come on, Mattie, it's time to wake up…" he tried a few times, prodding his little brother, but Canada remained unresponsive.

It wasn't good. If he were a human, America would have brought him straight to the ER.

Luckily, not many people were around in the heat, and the driver didn't seem to mind breaking a few speed limits, so he soon pulled in front of America's house.

The boy fumbled for a moment with his wallet, then threw fifty dollars at the driver.

"Keep the change!" he yelled as he picked up Canada. A moment later he was off, running through the lawn.

Once inside the house, America didn't waste a second to place Matthew on the king-sized bed he used for his visits, stripping him of all the clothes except for his boxers. He placed a thermometer in his mouth and occupied the time until the response frantically running through the house in search of all the items he needed, almost tripping and breaking his neck several times in the process.

Finally, America returned to Canada's room, his arms full, just as the thermometer beeped.

Alfred dropped everything on the desk and hurried to take it off, his eyes immediately darting to the numbers on the display.

 _106.34_

America's heart missed a beat.

 _Oh fuck…_

He took another glance at Canada's still, wheezing form.

That was bad. That was so much worse than he had thought… his head was almost spinning with the realization.

But he couldn't afford to panic, Canada needed help. Right. Now.

First things first: Alfred needed to cool him down. The ice packs were for that. America swiftly placed them on Matthew's forehead, chest, groin and under his armpits. After that, he sprayed the boy's body with cold water. He briefly wondered whether he should have put him directly into the bathtub, but that would have prevented him from giving Canada intravenous fluids – he couldn't recall Matthew drinking at all during the morning, he must have been severely dehydrated by then, nation or not.

Thankfully, America's house was stocked, he had some bags of saline solution. Carefully, Alfred took his brother's slender wrist into his bigger, rougher hands and inserted the needle, trying to be as gentle as he could. He dimly realized it didn't make much sense – Matthew was far too gone to feel anything – but the mere thought of causing his little brother any more pain made his stomach twist painfully.

When he was finally done, Alfred dropped on the edge of the mattress, running his fingers through his brother's soft hair.

"Oh, Mattie…" he whispered.

His brother's unconscious form didn't offer any answer.

America had to stifle a sob. He had only meant to cheer Canada up, how had everything managed to go so _wrong_?!

 _That's because you don't listen. You never do, and in the end, somebody else pays the price for your ignorance._

There was nothing he could say to counter that thought. Mainly, it was because it was true.

Only when the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth, America realized that he had been worrying his lower lip with his teeth. Swallowing, he diverted his gaze from Canada's pale face, trying not to listen to his shallow breaths.

 _'I need to do something.'_ He couldn't afford to break down, the least he could do was to ensure Matthew was being taken care of properly.

Trying to divert his mind from any thought, America took to methodically changing the ice packs and wetting Canada's body, ensuring that not a single part of him was ever dry, and periodically checking his temperature.

Finally, after what seemed centuries, Matthew's fever was down to 102.56. Still quite high, but not dangerous in the slightest, especially not for a nation.

And Canada seemed to be breathing more easily. His breaths still had a ragged edge, but they were deep and regular. His pulse wasn't that fast anymore, either, nor as weak as it had been when he had collapsed.

America's head spun for a moment, he had to place a hand against the wall to steady himself. He gave a deep exhale, fighting against the tears that threatened to spill from the corners of his eyes.

It was okay. Matthew was going to be okay.

For another time, with far less haste than before, America gently ran a damp cloth on Canada's abdomen – and suddenly he stopped, chocking.

He hadn't noticed it before, his mind muddled by urgency and concern, but now he couldn't take his eyes off it. Dark, half-healed bruises stood against the pale skin of Canada's abdomen, green and yellow patches covering his ribs in a sickening display.

America's trembling fingers hovered over the worst discolouration, that was on Matthew's stomach, not daring to touch it.

Actually, it probably wouldn't have hurt Canada, not even if he were awake. The bruises looked old, mostly faded, but Alfred knew enough about that kind of injuries to realize how bad they must have been at the beginning, how _painful_.

But _how_? How had Canada hurt himself so much?

Alfred took a deep breath, forcing himself to consider all the options.

Sure, it might have been just an accident. Canada might have fallen down the stairs, or something like that, God only knew how clumsy his brother could be at times.

And yet… there was something, a sort of tightness in his stomach, that made America think it wasn't the case. Which could mean only one thing: somebody else had been the cause of Canada's bruises.

America's blood boiled with rage at the thought of somebody daring to lay his hands on his little brother, his mind screamed for revenge – _nobody_ should be allowed to cause pain to Canada and walk away unpunished. And America would see to that, he swore to himself, clenching his fists.

Before doing so, however, he needed to find the culprit. He needed to think _rationally_.

Alfred quickly excluded the option of a human: Canada was a kind soul, and he didn't like fighting, but America knew that he was a lot stronger than people gave him credit for, he wouldn't let himself be beaten up like that by a mere mortal. Not under normal circumstances, anyway. Besides, Alfred was reasonably sure that Matthew had spent the last few days holed up in his house, doing paperwork, and any bruises caused by human hands before that would have faded too quickly to be still that visible.

Which left only one option: a _nation_ had been the cause of those injuries.

The timing was right, there had been a World Conference ten days earlier, and bruises dealt by another nation would take some time to heal.

America ran a hesitant finger through the length of Canada's abdomen, feeling the still heated, smooth skin, the now gentle rise and fall of his brother's chest.

He looked so peaceful, so young…

His other hand clenched into a fist, taken by the sudden impulse of punching something. America managed to restrain himself, but just barely.

 _Who_?

Who would have ever wanted to hurt _Canada_?! Did anybody have a grudge against him? Why would they?

Canada had done nothing wrong, nothing that could have angered other nations. They didn't remember him often, but the times they did, America had heard only praises about him.

Who, then?

Russia? Oh, the commie bastard looked like a probable option, and America would have jumped at an excuse to bash his head in, but… if he had to be honest with himself, Russia was actually _nice_ to Canada. Well, as nice as somebody as creepy as Russia could be, and America was sure it wasn't done without a secondary intent, but… he didn't see him just beating up Canada and then keeping silent. Russia would have bragged about it, or at least looked at America with that creepy, secretive smile of his to let him know he had missed something vital. Would he have any reason to keep silent?

Confusion was slowly breaking through Alfred's anger. The truth was, he still very much wanted to punch somebody, but he had no idea of who. But maybe…

Alfred gritted his teeth. No, he didn't need anybody's help. He was the United States of America, he could figure it out on his own.

His eyes fell again on his little brother's unconscious, battered body. He looked so delicate, so vulnerable… barely older than a child. In spite of that, somebody had decided to hurt him, to place those ugly marks on his pale flesh. And it might happen again, if America didn't put an end to it.

Pride be damned, Alfred whipped out his phone and punched in a number he knew by heart.

After a few rings, an annoyed, familiar voice answered from the other end.

"What the fuck do you want, Alfred?! This has better be bloody important, I'm in Paris for an EU conference, you git, I don't…"

America didn't have time for that.

"Do you know if any nation has a grudge against Canada?"

A few moments of silence preceded the confused answer.

"…What?"

A single word. Innocent, maybe. So full of _unawareness_. Of _ignorance_ , of _indifference_ – especially coming out of the mouth of somebody _who_ _should have cared_.

America finally lost the grip he had been so strenuously holding on his last vestiges of patience. He did manage to stop himself from punching something or throwing the phone across the room, but not the wail that bubbled up his throat and seeped through his lips.

"What do you mean 'what'? Canada! CANADA! Mattie! My little brother! Your most loyal colony! Do I have to spell it for you?! C-A-N-A…"

"I KNOW WHO CANADA IS, YOU BLOODY WANKER!" England was screeching as well. "WHAT I MEANT WAS, _WHY_ WOULD YOU ASK ME THAT ALL OF SUDDEN, MORON?!"

"Oh…"

So he _hadn't_ forgotten.

America had to backtrack from his previous position. He felt a little guilty for verbally assaulting Arthur like that, but he wasn't going to apologize. He was justified, after all, it wasn't like England had never overlooked Canada, and his nerves were frazzled after everything that had happened.

A few moments of silence followed England's words, then, America heard somebody else talk from the other side of the phone. He couldn't understand the words, but the French accent was unmistakable.

"Yes, we are talking about _Matthew_ , frog. How many other 'Canada' do you know?" England said, and his voice sounded weaker, as if he had put down the phone.

"Now, Alfred, what were you saying about somebody having a grudge on Canada?"

Arthur's voice was still tinged with annoyance, but there was also something else. _Concern_.

"Mattie's hurt," Alfred said briefly, "He has bruises all over his abdomen… mostly healed, but they had to be painful at first. Somebody must have beaten him up quite badly. At the last Conference. Have you got any idea of who it might be?"

A stunned silence met his words.

"Wha… What are you saying? Are you sure?" All the anger was gone from Arthur's voice, replaced by a shocked concern.

Alfred's eyebrows twitched.

"Of course I'm sure, I'm not fucking blind! Now, do you have any name or not?"

"But… who would…"

England sounded still in denial.

America huffed. Clearly, that call had been a waste of time.

"I mean, Canada is such a sweet and considerate nation, why would anybody… frog, stop it! Yes, Matthew is… oh bloody hell, no, he's not okay! Do you know of anybody who might want to hurt him?"

The phone was put down, and a muffled, frantic conversation followed England's words.

America could feel his irritation growing. He was about to hang up when England put up the receiver.

"France doesn't know anything, either," he stated, having regained control of himself. "But… How did you know? Is Canada with you?"

Right then, America realized _why_ he had dreaded calling England. Not only he didn't help with his investigation, now he also had to…

"…Yeeah…" he answered awkwardly.

"And then, why don't you try _asking_ him, you git? Better yet, let me talk to him. You'll never realize it if he's lying, and he might do it to prevent you from doing something stupid…"

America swallowed. His throat felt dry.

"Aactually, I can't do it. You see, Mattie's kinda like… uhm… unconscious."

Silence fell after those words. America contemplated hanging up the phone, but he wasn't fast enough.

England had regained his ability to talk, and, to put it simply, _exploded_.

"WHAT?! And you are telling only _now_ , you wanker?! WHAT. DID. YOU. DO?!"

 _'How did he know it was my fault?'_

Sometimes, Alfred was mystified by England's ability to read him and Canada.

"Uhm… you see…" he mumbled, feeling like the worst criminal in history.

He took a shaky breath, then capitulated.

"Please don't yell at me I know I was stupid I know I know I feel so horrible now but I just wanted to cheer him up I would have never thought it would happen I'm sorry I'm sorry I didn't think I'm the worst brother ever I'm supposed to protect him instead I didn't even listen I…" His voice trailed into a muffled whimper.

"What?" Arthur didn't sound angry anymore, but there was a panicked edge in his voice. "Alfred, take a deep breath. Tell me what happened, start from the beginning. Is it that bad? How is Matthew?"

America clenched his fists, trying to calm his thundering heart. (And he didn't sniffle. He was the United States of America, the strongest nation on the planet. That. Wasn't. A. Sniffle.) Then, he told England everything that had transpired, feeling uncomfortably like a small child confessing his misdeeds to a frowning adult.

To his credit, Arthur didn't scold him or yell at him, probably realizing how guilty Alfred was feeling. A long, weary sigh escaped his lips once America was finished with his tale.

"Oh, bloody hell…"

"I'm sorry," America whimpered again, feeling more and more like a child chastised by his parent. "I know it was my fault, I…"

"Never mind that, now," England interrupted him tiredly, "And don't worry about the bruises, either. I'll ask around if anybody knows anything… Just take care of Matthew. Heatstroke is a very serious condition, it could even have long-term consequences…"

A strangled whimper seeped through Alfred's lips as muffled exclamations in French started at the other end of the phone.

"Oh my God, Canada isn't going to recover? It was my fault! It was dealt by another nation, it's more serious than a normal heatstroke, I…"

"Stop it, both of you!" shouted England, "Francis, stop whining, you aren't helping! And Alfred, for God's sake, think rationally! You didn't hurt Matthew intentionally, yes it's your fault, but _indirectly_. That doesn't count as a nation hurting another nation, you git! And you know how important is _intent_ with those sort of things. Canada is going to recover fully. I only meant to say it might take a bit longer than you thought, but no more than a month in the worst possible scenario, and that's only if he was truly unlucky."

"…Are you sure?" America asked in a trembling voice.

"Yes, Alfred, I'm sure. Matthew just needs to rest, he's going to be fine. Just don't let him do anything strenuous for a few days, okay? By then, he'll probably be all right, banning any complication."

Arthur had taken to taking in a soothing voice, almost like Alfred was still a little child. For once, the boy didn't complain, but clung to those words like a drowning man to a life vest.

Nevertheless, he couldn't still fully calm down.

"Complications? Like?"

England took a sharp breath, hesitating.

"…The heat might have done some internal damage, I've heard it can happen," he said in the end, tentatively.

America gasped. Of course, he already knew that. But… somehow, he had managed to banish that thought to a corner of his mind. Hearing those words come from Arthur' mouth, however, suddenly made it look like too much real.

"Of course, I don't think it's the case," England went on hastily, "You must not forget that Canada is a nation, he's much more resilient than a human. And, even if that did happen, he would recover fully, it would just take a bit longer."

Not to mention the amount of pain involved.

America was aware that Arthur was on the same train of thoughts, for he fell silent, but he found himself grateful that Arthur avoided voicing it. He was already feeling enough guilty as it was.

"In any case, try to keep an eye on Matthew when he wakes up. And if you think he's in pain, or there's something amiss, take him to a doctor as soon as you can, I repeat, he _would_ recover anyway, but it can be quicker with proper medical care."

Okay, that sounded logical, and easy enough. Alfred's thundering heart finally started calming down, the panic receding. He realized that his hand had been holding to the phone like a lifeline, and forced himself to loosen his grip.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," he murmured, sending another glance at Canada.

In spite of all the commotion, his brother hadn't moved a single muscle. His breathing, however, was almost back to normal. He was going to be okay. America had screwed up, and badly, but it wasn't going to have a lasting effect.

"Alfred?" Arthur's voice sounded tentative again, and gentle, much too gentle. It was the kind of voice he used when Alfred was in pain, or deeply upset. "Do you need me to come over? The meeting ends tomorrow, I can take a plane and be there by the evening."

Muffled words followed his statement.

"… And Francis, too. I don't know how much help he could be, but he won't stop pestering me until I tell you…"

A small smile stretched Alfred's lips. He hadn't stopped feeling guilty, but somehow, he also felt _lighter_.

"Nah, I've got it, man. Leave it to the Hero! I can totally take care of Mattie!"

England snorted.

"…You git." America could almost see him shake his head on the other side of the phone. "Fine. Just… tell me when he wakes up, okay? And call me if there's anything wrong, I'm definitely coming."

"Yeah yeah. Will do it, old man."

England sighed, but for once, he didn't jump at the insult.

"…and Alfred? Don't beat yourself too much over this. It was an accident, you didn't mean it. Matthew would tell you that if he were awake, too."

 _No, he wouldn't._

Before collapsing, Canada had made it far too clear whom he blamed for the situation. And yes, sickness might have played a role in his words, but that didn't mean he didn't truly think at least part of what he had said.

Which didn't mean Alfred couldn't appreciate Arthur's effort.

"Artie? Thank you," he said softly.

 _Big brother_ , he wanted to add, but found himself unable to do so. He hoped that Arthur would understand anyway.

"Don't mention it. I'm not doing it for you, bloody wanker, it's your brother I'm worried about."

But his words were light, and Alfred knew he didn't mean them.

"Yeah, sure. Well, I'd better let you go, I guess your weary old body needs sleep. And say hi to Francis for me! Bye, Iggy!"

America hung up in the midst of England's sputtering, not exactly comfortable, but a lot less upset than he had been before.

The bruises on Canada's body were still there, angry and dark, but suddenly, they weren't the main issue anymore. Besides, England had said he would take care of that, and an angry England was never good news. America didn't envy anybody who would find themselves in his path if they hurt one of his precious former colonies. Yes, Canada's attacker, whoever he or she was, was in good hands.

Alfred brought a hand to Matthew's forehead, sweeping back his bangs. Still hot, but not nearly as bad as it had been before.

"Wake up soon, little brother," he murmured, "Everything is fine. I'll make everything all right again, I promise."

 **(word count: 5,747)**

* * *

 **Notes** **:**

106.34 °F = 41.3 °C  
102.56 °F = 39.2 °C

English still isn't my first language, I apologize for any mistake. Please, let me know if you spotted something wrong!

I feel like I've dragged this chapter way too long, but when I tried to edit I didn't know what to cut, so I left it as it was… My utter inability of writing short, incisive pieces manages to surprise me every time -.-'

Well, I hope somebody like it anyway. Please let me know what you think! :)

The third and final chapter will be up in a few days (It might take a bit longer, because unlike the first two parts, which I had written back in July, I still have to complete it, but it's almost done). It's back in Canada's POV, and finally gets to the fluffy part, I swear.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes** **:** Again, I really want to thank all of you. I had expected this story to go almost completely unnoticed, you have no idea of how happy I was each time I opened my e-mail and found another notification :)

The warnings are always the same. I'm not a medical expert, English isn't my first language, and I'm not that good at it, so there might be mistakes (nobody commented on it in the previous chapters, though. Does it mean I'm doing fine? Guys?! Please, I really need validation on this. I mean, this is literally one thing I cannot judge on my own, I don't realize if something is written in a way that sounds odd to a native speaker. Please say something!)

Also, this chapter is super long and very dialogue-heavy. And as you've certainly realized by now, I can't write dialogues. And there is no plot, it's basically only fluff. You have been warned, read at your own risk.

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

Canada woke up slowly, awareness gradually seeping into his mind.

He was lying on something soft and comfortable – a soft mattress, a bed. Sleeping. His mind dimly registered that there was something amiss, he didn't recall going to bed at all, but he still felt so _exhausted_ … he didn't care, he just wanted to slip back into the soothing embrace of sleep.

Yet, he couldn't do it. He had the nagging feeling that there was something deeply wrong, something he shouldn't ignore.

As he started coming closer to consciousness, Matthew realized that he wasn't as comfortable as he had previously assumed. On the contrary, ad deep uneasiness was settling into his limbs. The mattress was comfy, yes, but it was also wet, strangely s _ticky._ And so was his body, actually. It felt oddly heavy, hot and cold at the same time, and unpleasantly sore.

And now that he thought about it, that wasn't even his bed.

Groaning, Canada pried his eyes open with a considerable effort. At the same time, he felt a weight shift on the mattress.

"Mattie? Are you awake? Can you hear me?"

 _Alfred? Am I dreaming?_

But it was real, for the rough hand that went to cup his face was definitely his brother's one – although the touch was far too gentle to belong to him.

Matthew blinked a few times, trying to make sense of the blur of colours in front of his eyes, and felt his glasses being slipped on his face in the process. The colours slowly rearranged themselves into the shape of his older brother, bent over him. And oh – he recognized that ceiling. It wasn't his house, but his bedroom in America's house.

 _What on earth am I doing in Texas?_

"Al?" Matthew managed to croak.

His voice sounded weak and scratchy, and he suddenly realized that his mouth was parched, the tongue feeling swollen.

"Mattie!" his brother's shout sent a spike of pain through his brain – yep, apparently, he had a headache, too. And quite a bad one, from the look of things.

"Ugh… Al, please don't…" he muttered, trying to bring a hand to his throbbing forehead, but his action was met by an unexpected resistance, some kind of tugging, a prickling pain.

"…What…"

"Oh, I'm sorry Mattie, I didn't mean to… Wait, don't do that!"

America's hand gently blocked his arm against the mattress.

Blinking owlishly, Canada shifted his gaze to his right wrist – and was met with the surprising sight of an IV line embedded into his vein. Which explained why he had been unable to move, but nothing else. If anything, the mystery was deepening, _why_ did he need an IV?

"Alfred, what…" he started saying as he tried to get up.

Matthew didn't even get halfway through with the movement – his head spun and his body was horribly weak and heavy, his limbs lacking any strength. A whimper bubbled up his throat as his brother's hands ushered him back to the pillow without meeting any resistance.

"Oh no Mattie, take it easy, you really shouldn't try to get up yet…" Alfred said, his voice oddly gentle, laced with concern.

After blinking away the spots in front of his eyes, Canada realized that Alfred's face was pale and drawn, deep lines etched into his forehead, his normally bright eyes clouded. Even more worrisome was the fact that he wasn't smiling, his lips tightened into a straight line.

"Al, what happened?" Matthew managed to ask in spite of the dryness in his throat, concern seeping through his voice. "Is there something wrong? Are you all right?"

America's expression lightened at that and he gave a small chuckle, shaking his head, but it sounded forced, bordering on hysteric.

"Oh, Mattie… How can you even… I'm fine. Everything is fine. Except for you, that is."

"Oh…"

Well, he supposed that Alfred was right. He was lying on a bed with an IV line inserted into his arm, too weak to even sit on his own. Which meant he wasn't fine, yes.

At least there was nothing wrong with his brother.

America's hand went to his forehead, smoothing back his hair with uncharacteristic tenderness. Matthew sighed as he leaned into his touch, cool and soothing against his throbbing head.

Now, if only he could do something for his parched throat… and maybe find out what had happened. Yes, that should definitely be a priority.

"Matthew?" his brother's voice jerked him back to reality. Canada realized that he had let his eyelids slid closed, and forced his eyes open.

"Do you remember what happened?" the voice sounded oddly concerned, and still too soft to belong to _America_.

As Matthew realized that _he_ was the most likely source of his concern, guilt started blossoming in his stomach.

"Not really…" he was forced to say anyway, "I…"

He stopped, his voice too raw to keep talking. A swallow proved to be ineffective, there was no saliva left in his mouth, instead, the boy found himself coughing.

"Mattie! What's wrong, Mattie? Does it hurt anywhere?" his brother's voice had a panicked edge, his hands were hovering over Matthew's body as he tried to decide how to help him.

With a grimace, Canada managed to take control of his breathing, calming the coughs.

"I'm fine," he said weakly, his voice raspy. "Just… Very thirsty. Can I…?"

Alfred's expression softened.

"Oh, of course! That was so stupid of me… I'll get you a something straight away, 'kay?"

Canada offered him a weak smile, hoping it could convey his gratefulness.

One of Alfred's hands ruffled his hair as the other took something from the side table. Canada craned his neck to see what it was, and his query was answered when a metallic device was inserted into his mouth. A thermometer.

"Wha…?"

America shushed him.

"Keep it while I get you some water. I'll be right back, just don't move."

Matthew nodded at his brother's retreating back. His tongue moved experimentally around the thermometer, careful not to dislodge it. Why did he even need a thermometer, anyway? Did he have a fever?

His body felt tired and sore, and Matthew was also becoming aware of being uncomfortably hot. It could have been the sign of a fever, but he usually felt _cold_ when he had one, and sweaty. Well, if America was trying to take his temperature, it probably meant he had a fever. Was he sick? He didn't remember.

Canada was quite sure there was nothing particularly wrong with his country, he would have definitely felt it if it were… that was quite a relief. Which meant he had caught a human illness, most likely. It wasn't the first time it happened, and wouldn't probably be the last, but, while unpleasant, it was nothing serious, it would pass.

Why was America so worried, then? And more importantly, why was Canada even with him in the first place?

The answer to the first question was quite easy, actually: America, being blessed with a formidable health, had never been sick with a common illness, so he probably wasn't fully aware that they weren't serious for a Nation and that, coupled with his overdramatic personality, accounted for his exaggerated reaction.

As for the second question, Matthew still didn't have any clue.

Except… what had he been doing in the last days?

He recalled paperwork. Loads and loads of paperwork, forms to fill, documents to check, reports to read. And then… his memory was getting quite hazy at that point, days and hours blending together, but… had America phoned him? Matthew had a faint recollection of something like that, of seeing his brother's name on the screen, but it was hazy, he wasn't sure whether it had really happened or he had only dreamed it…

His train of thoughts was disrupted by America's abrupt return.

"I'm baaack!" his older brother called in a sing-song voice.

Canada grimaced a bit at the pang of pain that went through his head, but he had to recognize that Alfred hadn't talked nearly as loudly as he usually did. It was still quite loud, but he had to be truly forcing himself to use that volume…

At that moment, the thermometer beeped, sending another wave of pain through his brain.

America was at his side in an instant, grabbing the device before Canada could even think about doing so. He saw his brother's forehead furrow as his eyes focused on the display.

"102.02…" he muttered, "It's not going down as much as it should…"

So, Matthew _did_ have a fever. Not really bad, but not that slight, either, and, judging from Alfred's words, it had been worse before. Well, that explained his worry.

Alfred's eyes went back to his face, clouded with concern.

"How are you feeling? Are you hurting anywhere?"

"…Thirsty," Matthew repeated, not even registering the second part of the question.

"Oh, of course. Sorry, you'll talk later. Here, let me help you."

America rearranged a few pillows against the headboard and helped him to a semi-sitting position, minding the IV inserted into his right arm. Matthew's head spun a little at the movement, but it settled as soon as he sank against the fluffy support.

America pressed a soothingly cold glass against his lips, supporting it even when Canada's free hand went to grab it. A wise choice, Matthew immediately realized how weak his hold was, he might have dropped the glass.

A blissfully cold liquid seeped into his mouth, and for a moment, Canada forgot about everything else, all his senses engrossed into the heavenly feeling of the soothing liquid filling his mouth, running down his throat, finally alleviating the horrendous thirst that had plagued him since he had woken up. Matthew drank the whole glass in big gulps, letting out a whimper when America took it away from him.

"More, please," he begged, his voice having regained strength.

"No, you'll be sick," his brother retorted, frowning as he put the glass out of Matthew's reach.

Canada had to admit that America was right. Besides, even that single glass had been enough to make him feel considerably better, returning a bit of clarity to his thoughts. The headache was still there, throbbing under his temples, but the haze in his mind seemed to have mostly lifted, and a bit of strength had returned his limbs, allowing him to sit straighter.

"Ok, fine," he sighed, wondering when Alfred had gotten so sensible.

His brother was sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked tense, his face still pale and drawn, his hands fidgeting.

"How are you feeling now?" he asked.

Canada offered him a soft smile.

"Much better, actually. Thank you. I'm really sorry for worrying you like that…"

He had apologized partly out of reflex, and partly because he didn't like seeing his brother upset, but his words seemed to have the opposite effect. For a moment, America just looked at him, completely still, his face ashen and his eyes wide.

"…Mattie... Do you… Don't you remember anything?"

Canada shifted against the pillows, uneasiness starting to blossom across his stomach.

"Not… not really? You called me… to ask if I had a free day?"

While the recollection was still a bit fuzzy, it was clearer than earlier, now, Matthew was almost completely sure it had really happened.

Alfred nodded slowly, biting absent-mindedly into his lower lip. There was something in him – his stiff posture, his austere, pale face, the way his hands kept fidgeting – that seemed to radiate _guilt_. For what, Matthew didn't know. Unless…

Alfred took a deep breath, clenching his fists as he lowered his head. Then, he started talking slowly.

"That's exactly what I did. You were in Ottawa, but you came to the border early this morning, and then… Then I took you here, in Texas."

America stopped, taking a shaky breath, but at that point, there was no need for him to go on. It was like his words had opened a dam: finally, all the memories of the morning poured into Canada's mind in a whirlwind of dizzying footages. He remembered, now. The morning riding, the unbearable heat, the lunch, and then…

Matthew gasped, paling, his eyes widening as the realization hit him like a ton of bricks.

Alfred had been staring at him, and he immediately understood. Canada saw his brother crumble before his own two eyes, while he was too paralyzed by the shock to do anything. _How_ could he have been so…

"Mattie, I'm sorry!" America wailed, "Oh, I'm so, so sorry, I know you hate me now and you have every right to, it's all my fault, it's like you said, I'm horrible and because of me you got so sick, and I don't think I can make it up to you, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry…"

Canada could only stare in horror, his mind so overwhelmed by guilt that he couldn't think, couldn't answer, couldn't comfort his brother. _How_ could he have been so hurtful?! He remembered all of the poisonous words that had seeped through his lips, words aimed at _wounding_.

And now, Alfred was almost sobbing, an endless litany of _'I'm sorry'_ spewing from his mouth. Matthew's normally so vibrant, cheerful brother had shrunk to a trembling, pale mess on the bed, his shoulders and back, usually so straight, so confident, were hunched over, while his cornflower blue eyes were still shining, but it was because of the tears that threatened to spill over.

And it was Canada's his fault.

The boy could feel bile rise to the back of his throat. He knew how America was, he knew he hadn't meant to hurt him, if anything, he should have been happy that he had noticed, that he _cared_ … instead, he had hurled insults at him.

Canada wanted to say something – _do_ something, but how could he even begin to mend such a deep injury, how could he take back…

America gave a loud sniffle, the sound finally wrenching Matthew out of his trance.

His left hand landed on his brother's shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. Everything was shaking – he couldn't tell whether it was Alfred's body, his own hand, or both of them.

"Al… Al, oh God, I'm so sorry…"

As usual, his voice was barely above a whisper, but it did stop his brother's ramblings. The older nation looked up, blinking, his features slowly rearranging themselves in a confused expression.

"… Wha…? No, Mattie, _I_ 'm sorry, I…"

Alfred stopped as Matthew gave another squeeze to his shoulder.

"Al. Alfred. Please, listen to me."

His brother looked about to reply, then another flicker of guilt went through his eyes. He nodded, swallowing, deep lines etched in his forehead.

"Alfred, what I said before... I didn't mean it. You… you know that, right? I mean, you can be quite overbearing at times, but you aren't… you aren't what I told you. And I could never, ever hate you. No matter what you do. You are my brother, you… you are one of the most important people in my life, I… I don't know how to apologize, there is no way I can apologize for something like that, but please, please listen. I know you didn't mean for me to get sick. And I appreciate that you wanted to hang out with me, I was very happy when you called me, I just…"

His voice had grown more and more hysterical with each word. Matthew stopped, unable to go on, his conscience gnawed by guilt. _How_ could he even begin to apologize?

Alfred's face, however, had relaxed a little, and his back was a little straighter.

"But I… I didn't mean to do anything wrong, but I still dragged you around even when you told me no, I didn't even _ask_ if you were okay with that…" America murmured, still chastised.

A glimmer of hope was shining in his eyes, though.

Matthew let out a tired sigh. He wanted to talk, to explain himself…but he felt spent, his mind too fatigued to put up with the much-needed pep talk, his body weary beyond belief, his head throbbing.

"Al… answer this question. When you decided what to do, what were you thinking about? That you wanted to have a ride with somebody, and you randomly picked me, or that you wanted to do something with me because you thought I had looked quite down?"

Alfred's eyes were huge as he looked at him.

"I wanted to spend some time with you," he said in a small voice that reminded Canada of a little child.

Matthew sighed again.

 _'Damnit, I'm no good at this.'_ There _was_ a reason people should mind their words _before_ they came out their mouths, not after.

"Then it's okay," he stated in what he hoped to be a soothing voice, looking at his brothers straight in the eyes. "I mean, obviously you should be more attentive, but your heart was in the right place, so it's not that big of a deal. I mean, I'm a nation, I will recover. And what I said… it was really nasty and uncalled for. I… I don't know what had gotten into me. I mean, I wasn't feeling good, and I certainly wasn't thinking straight, but that's no excuse for my behaviour, I don't really…"

This time, it was America who stopped him, holding up a hand. His face wasn't as pale as before, and he looked much more confident. Not back to his usual self, but definitely an improvement.

"Nah, it's okay," he said, even managing to crack a small grin. "I still kind of deserved it. But man, Mattie, you can be such a little bitch when you want!"

It was the last remark, said lightly, that let Matthew know that the worst was over.

"Well, I suppose the heat got a bit to my head," he sighed, finally letting his weary body sink against the pillows.

America snorted.

He locked eyes with him, a small, weak smile tugging at his lips, and suddenly burst into tears as he collapsed against his brother. His arms snaked around Canada's slim body, squeezing him so tight that he could barely breathe. The younger boy could feel Alfred's body tremble as he clung to him, shaken by the sobs, the hot tears starting to drop on his collarbone.

He had been expecting something like that, though. He sighed as he wrapped his own arms around his brother, hugging him gently.

"It's okay, Al. It's all right now," he murmured, letting his head rest on the top of his brother's.

"I'm s-s-sorry!" Alfred sobbed loudly, "Mattie, you have no idea of how scared I was, I just saw you on the ground a-a-and you weren't moving and you were burning up s-so bad a-a-and you w-wouldn't wake u-up…"

Matthew shushed him, one hand gently petting his brother's hair, the other rubbing circles on his back.

"It's all right. I'm fine now, it's going to be okay. Cry as much as you want, I'm here. It's all right now."

Alfred sobbed even louder, burying his head against the crook of Matthew's neck. His tears were soaking Canada's skin, and his body was hot and heavy, but Matthew didn't mind.

 _'Good. Just let it out.'_

He knew that this was Alfred's way of dealing with stressful situations – of _truly_ dealing with them, not burying the issue deep in his mind until it would grow so much to shatter him. He needed to come to term with what happened, before moving on.

So Matthew kept holding him, mindless of the discomfort, until Alfred's sobs died down and his trembling eased.

"Good now?" he asked in the end, when he was sure his brother had calmed down.

America gave him a last, powerful squeeze before detaching himself from his body.

"Yeah," he said weakly as he rubbed his eyes, still sniffling a bit, but he was sitting straighter on the bed, and managed a small smile when his eyes found Matthew's.

There was no need for other words, not between them. There were very few people America didn't mind showing himself so vulnerable to, and Canada was blessed to belong to that spare number.

"And Mattie? If I'm ever about to do something like that again, please kick my butt. Don't let me drag you around if you don't want to, okay? _Especially_ if you are feeling sick. Do whatever you need to stop me, scream if you want, but please stop me, because I don't think I'll be able to go through something like this again."

His eyes were bright again, and the smile a bit wavering, but it was gaining strength.

Matthew sighed and rested his head against the pillows, suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of weariness so intense that he felt no longer able of supporting his body on his own. He had been so worried for Alfred that he had completely forgotten about his own condition, but now that America was okay, his headache had returned with vengeance, throbbing viciously against his temples, and his body felt heavy and sore.

His discomfort didn't go unnoticed.

"Mattie? Shit, I'm sorry. You're supposed to be resting…"

While Alfred's voice still held a tinge of guilt, it was completely different than before. Lighter, louder. More like _America_. Canada found himself thinking it was one of the sweetest, most welcome sounds he had ever heard.

"I suppose I am," he sighed, "What happened to me, anyway? I remember that I was feeling awful, then I think I collapsed, I kind of remember falling down, and now I have a fever… Heat exhaustion?"

America gave a short, humourless laugh, a hand shooting out to ruffle Matthew's hair – and gauge the temperature of his forehead, as well. His brother was anything but subtle.

"I wish it were simple heat exhaustion," he replied, a bit bitterly, "Nope, that's a fully developed heatstroke. Geez, Mattie, how come you have such a low heat tolerance? I get that a lot of your territories are beyond the Arctic Circle, but you _have_ some hot places as well…"

If America felt confident enough to joke about what had just happened, Canada took it as a good sign. It was his preferred coping mechanism, which meant he wasn't crippled by guilt anymore. It was definitely an improvement.

Which meant _he_ could be offended at his brother's words, at least to lighten the mood.

"You can criticize me about this only after you've gotten through a winter without complaining twenty times a day about the cold," Matthew huffed, trying to cross his arms over his chest, but the IV prevented him from doing so.

Now he could understand why Alfred's concern and guilt had been so over the top, though, heatstroke was nothing to joke about. No wonder he still felt so off.

 _Just my luck._

"How are you feeling, anyway?" Alfred asked, his expression turning serious. "Don't lie to me. You were struggling to breathe when you collapsed, how is that now? Do you feel any discomfort? Actually, do you feel any pain at all?"

"I have no problem breathing, but my head is killing me," Matthew admitted.

Even if he would have preferred to spare Alfred from that knowledge, he knew that an omission would have only made things worse in the long run.

Alfred sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Well, that's to be expected. Anything else?"

"I kinda feel like I've been run over by a truck, and it's like my body is made of lead, but nothing specific. And I guess that's quite normal, after a heatstroke."

Canada had hoped to quell his brother's thirst with those words, he didn't want him to dwell over his condition only to renew the guilt, but Alfred kept pressing on, his sharp eyes focused on Matthew's face to detect any hint of a lie. Not that Canada could blame him, he _had_ a history of trying to hide his ailments and injuries to prevent people from worrying.

"Do you feel any pain in the abdominal area? Kidneys?"

"What? …no, I don't think so. Why are you…"

America's knitted forehead relaxed, relief showing through his face.

"Sometimes, heatstroke can lead to internal damage," he explained, "I couldn't take you to a hospital, so I wasn't sure…"

Guilt tugged at Matthew's stomach. While he had been vaguely aware that heatstroke was a serious condition, he hadn't known just how much… America clearly had, instead. And he had plainly spent the time before his awakening running his mind through the worst scenarios, no wonder he was so shaken. Canada couldn't even begin to imagine how horrible it must have been.

"Don't worry, Al," he said earnestly, "I'm sure it's nothing like that. I just need a bit of rest, I'll be as good as new by tomorrow."

He chose not to mention how internal damage might go unnoticed for a while – he was a nation, after all. He would heal. There was no reason to give his brother something else to mull over.

America snorted.

"Nice try, little bro. But you're not leaving that bed for a few days at least, doctor's order."

He looked serious.

Canada sighed. He should have known this was coming, he had worried America far too much, now, he'd have to deal with his overprotective tendencies. _Oh well, it could be worse._

"For a human, it takes from a month to a year to recover fully, so you're staying with me for at least a week," Alfred went on. "No, let's make it two weeks. You had a pretty bad case, you had stopped sweating for a while and you even turned pale, I don't want to take any chance."

Which wouldn't have been that bad, and America's concern was certainly welcome, but…

"Al, that's very nice of you, but I _can't_. I have to be home for tomorrow, I left Kuma alone, and I have work…"

America interrupted his speech by ruffling his hair, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Stop worrying about that! I've got everything under control. I called your boss earlier, you can take as many days off as you need, so no work until you're fully recovered. And I'm sure Kuma can take care of himself for a few days, but if you really want, I can arrange for a plane for tomorrow."

Matthew could only gape at his brother. Had he truly been so efficient and thoughtful? For him?

"Yes. Yes, that would be perfect," he said, a smile curling his lips. "Thank you, Al."

Canada would call his boss and apologize for the inconvenience, assuring him that he was fit to work, but that could wait until the following day, he didn't want America to see all his efforts undone.

"But I'm coming with you if you want to go back home, and I'm staying until I'm sure you're completely fine."

Matthew's eyes widened at his brother's bold statement. They searched America's face for any sign that he wasn't serious, but found none.

"Al, you can't do that. I mean, I really appreciate your concern, but… you've got _work_ to do. It's not your fault, I already told you. You don't need to make amends or anything, really, I couldn't possibly let you waste so much time taking care of me, I'll be fine, there's no need…"

Alfred put both his hands on his shoulders, facing him squarely.

"Mattie," he said, his voice grave, "What are you saying? Taking care of you isn't a 'waste of time'. You're my little brother. I'm _glad_ to take care of you, and it has absolutely nothing to do with 'making amends or anything'. And don't worry about my work! I'm the Hero, I can manage a few days without!"

Of course he could. Nobody knew how many excuses his brother tried to accumulate to get out of his works more than Canada did. Hell, _he_ was one of the excuses most of the times.

However, that wasn't the point. Matthew just _couldn't_. He couldn't burden his brother like that, he didn't deserve it, even less after how horrible he had been. How could he have ever said all those awful things to Alfred?

"Al, thank you, really, but…"

A gentle hand on his lips shushed him.

"No more words, Mattie," Alfred said in a sing-song voice. His eyes, however, held a cold glint that left no doubt over the seriousness of his words. "Just let the Hero take care of you! And don't give me that crap about 'not needing to'. If I leave you alone, you'll be back at work by tomorrow, apologizing your boss for the inconvenience and telling him that he doesn't need to worry, your older brother America is just overprotective and quick to jump to conclusions."

Well, that sounded about right.

"But you aren't fine. And you won't be fine by tomorrow, maybe not even the day after. You'd just overwork yourself and end up getting sick again! You need to rest for at least a couple of days, and your health needs to be monitored. And it's not just me being overprotective, even Artie said so!"

Matthew had started trying to find a way to sway America as soon as he had started talking, but his last words left his mind blank with shock.

"England?"

What did he have to do with anything? Why would he even know what had happened? There was no way he did… Unless America had told him.

"Of course, England," his brother replied absent-mindedly, "He was… Oh, fuck. I completely forgot to call him…"

Even before he had finished talking, Alfred took his phone from the nightstand, quickly typing something.

Matthew could only stare at him in confusion.

"What… why do you have to call him?"

America had finished typing and looked up from his phone.

"Because you've finally woken up, silly," he said with a grin, reaching out to pat Matthew's head. "He was very worried, you know? He even said he'd come here to take care of you. And Francis, too."

Canada's eyes widened.

Arthur and Francis? They had barely even looked at him ten days earlier, not even offering a greeting nor answering to Canada's one, but in spite of that… they worried about him. They _cared_.

Of course, Matthew knew that they did. That they didn't mean to forget him, but… knowing was a thing. _Experiencing_ it was a completely different matter, and those times had been so few and far in between in the last years that Canada had almost forgotten how it felt like.

Now, after Alfred's sincere words, under his brother's warm, affectionate gaze, Matthew could feel a sudden feeling of warmth blossom inside his chest, almost bringing tears to his eyes. Oh, scratch the almost. There _were_ tears in his eyes.

America's eyes widened, his expression turning alarmed.

"Mattie, what's wrong?" he asked urgently, laying a hand on his younger brother's cheek, "Are you in pain?"

Canada shook his head, taking a deep, shuddering breath in an effort to calm himself down.

"What is it, then? Why are you crying?"

Matthew wiped his eyes with the back of his free hand, blushing slightly.

"Sorry. I'm just… so happy."

 _'That they care. That you all care,'_ went unsaid, but America's expression softened as he offered him a small smile.

"Of course they worry, Mattie. They are both idiots, but they care for you a lot, you know?"

As if on cue, his phone vibrated.

"It's Art," Alfred reported as he looked at the text, "He says he's glad that you're okay, and Francis too. And to call if something happens. If not, he'll call back tomorrow, he wants to talk to you to make sure you're really fine, but now, you should rest."

Matthew was about to say that it was fine, he wasn't that tired anyway, then realized that his voice still sounded weaker than usual, he would have only worried Arthur. Not to mention the fact that _Arthur_ was the one who was supposed to be resting, it had to be night in Europe. In spite of that, England had been awake until then, waiting for an update on Canada's conditions.

"Okay," he said, "Tell him thanks from me."

Alfred nodded, quickly typing an answer.

"Why did you call him, anyway?" Canada decided to ask.

Yes, America had been clearly out of himself with concern, but it was equally obvious that he was perfectly aware of what had to be done, he wouldn't have needed to ask for England's advice.

Alfred stared at him with an unreadable expression.

"Dude," he said in the end, more serious than Matthew would have expected, "Have you looked at yourself in a mirror lately?"

The question caught Canada completely out of surprise.

"What?" was the only thing he could say as his free hand ran to his face, his fingers gently prodding the skin under his eyes. He had barely slept in the last few days, maybe he had ugly, purple bags? The morning felt centuries away, but Matthew didn't remember checking the mirror, he had been in such a hurry… he wasn't even sure if he had brushed his hair.

Alfred's strong hand took a hold of his wrist, gently guiding it back to the mattress.

"I wasn't talking about your face," he said softly, "You are aware that you're only wearing boxers, aren't you?"

Yes, Matthew had been vaguely aware of that. He hadn't given it much of a thought until then, but apparently, it was a big deal? Alfred was frowning at his abdomen with such an intensity that it looked like it had wronged him somehow. What was his problem? Was it because Canada was much thinner than he was? But America already knew that…

Matthew's eyes followed his brother gaze, tilting his head to try to have a better look at…

"Oh, maple."

He had completely forgotten about that. The bruises he had gotten from Cuba were still painfully evident on his skin, patches of dark, vivid colours littering his otherwise candid flesh. They barely hurt anymore, they were mostly healed anyway, and that was probably why hadn't noticed them, with his whole body sore because of the heatstroke. Matthew's complexion, however, was so fair that that kind of marks lingered for some time even after the injuries had stopped hurting.

And Alfred had obviously noticed.

"Yes, 'oh maple' would be about right," his brother growled.

He cupped Canada's chin with his hand, lifting it so they were looking squarely in the eyes.

"Matthew, tell me the truth. Who. Did. This. Who _dared_ to hurt you this way?"

America's eyes were as cold as steel, his voice had a slight tremble of barely suppressed rage. It wasn't Alfred, it was a nation, the strongest nation on the face of the earth, who would not hesitate to kill or maim whoever stood in his way.

Canada found himself out of breath.

How many times? How many times had he imagined that moment, played it through his mind, tried to choose the best words, pictured America's reaction as he heard of all the suffering he had had to endure in his place, because of his arrogant actions and everybody else's blindness…

Matthew opened his mouth to speak… and suddenly realized that he couldn't do it.

And it wasn't only because Cuba was his friend, and while he had never actually meant to hurt _Canada_ America would hear no reasons, he would annihilate him.

It was because… such a knowledge would _shatter_ Alfred. Matthew had seen the way he had been only a few minutes earlier, reduced to a sobbing mess by the realization that his actions had unknowingly hurt his younger brother. If Canada were to tell him about all the abuse had been enduring for _years_ in his name, of all the times Cuba had beaten him to a pulp before he had the chance to explain, the nights spent trying to tend to his own injuries, with only Kumajiro as his helper… Matthew didn't know how his brother would react. Well, that wasn't true, he actually did. But never, ever again he wanted to see that heartbroken expression on his brother's suddenly waxen face, the raw suffering shining in his too bright eyes. Not if he could avoid it.

He sighed, burying his face in his hands – actually, hand, singular. He kept forgetting about the IV.

"Oh, God, Al," he moaned, "That's… that's so embarrassing."

America's hands hovered hover his shoulders, indecisive.

"What? Mattie, no, there's nothing to be embarrassed about." He took Canada's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze as he tugged it down so he could look at him in the eyes. "Just tell me who did this to you. They'll pay for it, I swear."

So much eagerness in his brother's voice, so much thirst for blood…

"Well, in this case, you can go and butcher a moose, if it makes you feel better," Matthew joked weakly, giving Alfred a sheepish smile.

America straightened, taken aback.

"What?"

"I got rammed into by a moose, Al," sighed Matthew, studying the pattern on the sheets as if too embarrassed to look in his brother's eyes. "Actually, I don't even know _how_ it happened… I got outside to get some fresh air, I was very tired from all the paperwork, and I dunno… it must have been scared because it had gotten so close to civilization or something, and when it saw me it thought I was a threat… and I was so tired that I didn't realize what was happening until it hit me. It caught me square in the front, and trampled me… then Kuma came and scared it away, I think, I was pretty dazed… Hurt like a bitch, but actually nothing serious…"

"Oh…" Alfred sounded surprised, confused. "Is that…"

"Believe me, it's true. I wish it weren't. I mean, who gets hurt like that… ugh… this is so pathetic…"

 _'But that's what makes this believable.'_ At least, he hoped so.

Matthew made a show of rising shyly his head, giving his brother a sheepish grin.

Alfred blushed slightly.

"Oh, well," he murmured, running a hand through his hair, "Yeah, I can see how it might be embarrassing… an immortal nation losing against a moose... well, I might have flown a bit off the handle, I was already so worried when I saw your bruises…"

"Yeah, I broke a few ribs," Matthew made up on the spot, realizing that his brother might notice if his bruises didn't heal completely in the following days. "They're fine now, but… _ugh_ …"

"Oh God, are you all right?" Alfred asked immediately, his eyes widening.

"Yes, it's fine. Nothing serious, they were just hairline fractures… Nothing to worry about."

America nodded, the rage completely gone from his eyes.

"Well… I'd better recall the hunting squad, then." He sighed. "Wow, thank God it's night in Europe, it could have been such a _huge_ misunderstanding…"

"What? Who?"

"Arthur and Francis," explained Alfred, "That's why I called Iggy, to ask if he knew about somebody beating you up… He didn't, but he said he'd investigate. Shit… he's so gonna chew me out for jumping to conclusions…"

Canada didn't know how to feel at that. He was partly sorry for Alfred, partly pleasantly surprised by Francis's and Arthur's concern, but mostly, he was relieved to see how calm and confident, how _America_ Alfred looked at that moment, as he typed on his phone.

A soft, genuine smile stretched on his lips. Yes, Matthew had made the right decision.

A few moments later, Alfred started fussing over him, checking his fever (still the same, which sent him in a frenzy), and realizing only after some time the issue that actually needed to be addressed, which was that the bag with the saline solution was empty.

"Al, stop a minute," Matthew managed to say before his brother attached a new (and probably, if he had to be honest with himself, quite needed) bag to the IV line. "Can't it wait a bit? I'd like to have a bath."

His body felt strange, it was stuck to the damp sheets and uncomfortable in general.

He saw Alfred's eyebrow rise as he pondered his request, for once listening to him, and finally nodded.

"I suppose it can be done. Cold water… yeah, fine," he commented as he detached the line from Matthew's arm, his movements so careful that the boy barely felt a prick when the needle slid out of his vein.

Canada immediately shifted, eager to put his feet to the ground. Not one of his best ideas – a wave of dizziness assaulted his head as the world tilted, and he found himself grabbing America's t-shirt, burying his head against his brother's stomach.

Alfred's strong arms went around his shoulders, steadying him.

"I don't really think you should be doing that, Mattie…"

Canada shook his head, slowly straightening his back.

"No, let me. I want to see how far I can go." _I want to see how bad it truly is._

His brother's lips tightened in a thin line of disapproval, but he had to realize that it would help him gauge Matthew's condition, too, for he slowly helped the younger boy up, his hands firmly around his waist.

Canada managed about two steps before his head started spinning, but he got to the bathroom on his own two feet, albeit leaning more and more heavily against America, who kept an arm around his waist for support.

It wasn't more than a few metres away, but when Alfred helped him sit on the lid of the toilet as he turned on the water, Matthew was so winded that he felt like he had just run a marathon. America kept a steadying hand on his shoulder, and Canada didn't complain when his brother helped him undress and deposited him inside the now half-filled tub.

"Tell me again, who was going to be fine by tomorrow?" Alfred asked lightly as he rummaged through a cabinet.

"Shut up, Al," was the only thing Matthew could moan, so spent that even talking seemed a herculean task.

His brother laughed as he started dropping something inside the tub.

"What are you…"

"Bubbles!" Alfred answered enthusiastically, waving his arms. "Everything is better with bubbles!"

And yes, Canada could see the bubbles slowly forming over the water, filling the air with a faint scent of…

Matthew straightened a bit.

"Hey, is this…?"

"Maple!" Alfred said proudly, "Maple-scented soap! I bought it a while back in Toronto, figured you'd like it…"

His face was lit by a blinding, excited smile.

In spite of his exhaustion, Canada found himself chuckling lightly as he relaxed against the tub.

"Yeah. This is perfect, Al. Thank you."

"Of course, I'm the Hero!"

Matthew hummed along. The water felt soothing against his sore body, it was relieving his cramped muscles as well as cooling down his still heated skin.

"Mattie? I'll go change the sheets, I'll be back in a minute."

Canada realized that he had closed his eyes and forced himself to straighten up, to stay vigilant.

"Yeah, sure."

The boy wanted nothing more than relax in the water and let his weary body slid to sleep, but he didn't want America to worry, so he had to stay awake. It proved to be more difficult than expected, after washing his body, there was nothing to keep him focused enough to stay awake.

Except for washing his hair. Canada reached for a bottle of shampoo, then stopped, staring at it dully.

He had to put it on his head.

Which meant he had to _lift_ his arms.

Matthew moaned. It was too much of an effort, there was no way he could do it.

"Here, let me do this."

Canada gasped, startled back to awareness by his brother's voice. He hadn't even realized he had come back.

Alfred chuckled lightly, taking the bottle from his lax hold before pouring the content on his head.

"Just rest, 'kay Mattie? The Hero will take care of everything!"

Matthew wanted to protest, he didn't want to fall asleep like that while his brother was sacrificing his own time to take care of him, but Alfred's fingers moved carefully on his scalp, rubbing it with an unexpected gentleness that brought relief to his aching head, and he found himself relaxing, lulled into a state of semi-consciousness by the soothing movements.

Canada was barely awake when Alfred decided that bath time was over, and didn't protest when his brother wrapped him in a fluffy towel and carefully lifted him in his arms, cradling him against his chest. He was quite sure he wouldn't have been able to walk on his own, anyway.

His eyed half-lidded, Matthew nuzzled his head against his brother's neck and felt the strong arms tighten their hold around him, almost like a hug. Just like they had when he had been still barely more than a toddler, half-asleep, snuggled in his suddenly older brother's embrace.

Canada smiled against Alfred's neck. He could still remember perfectly the sensation of being encased in those strong arms as he curled again that broad chest, feeling so _safe_ , with the utter certainty that his big brother would protect him from any harm.

Except Alfred's chest didn't feel that big anymore.

"Man, Mattie, you've grown up so much…" America said softly, and Matthew laughed.

"Just don't drop me."

Alfred laughed as well, the sound reverberating from his ribcage to Canada's form, almost shaking him, but when he talked again, his tone was serious.

"I'll never drop you, little bro."

Matthew had never believed him more.

The two of them fell into a comfortable silence, and nobody spoke until America laid Canada on the freshly made bed.

"What do you want to do?" he asked as he manoeuvred around his wrist to set the second IV. "You look pretty tired, maybe it's better if you rest."

This time, he was actually asking _him_.

Matthew was completely worn out, yet he realized that he didn't want to sleep yet, suddenly finding himself with the overwhelming need of spending some time with his brother, not wanting to lose a single moment.

"I'm not sleepy," he lied, "What do _you_ want to do?"

Alfred shot him a look, and Matthew was sure he was reading right through his lie, but he didn't call him out on it.

"Japan send me a new anime a few days ago, said I'd like it," he said instead, "What do you feel about an anime marathon?"

It sounded perfect.

Canada found himself nodding enthusiastically, his eyes shining with excitement, glad that Alfred had remembered one of the interests they shared.

Only he hadn't thought that through, because Matthew found himself nodding off half through the opening song, his head lolling against Alfred's shoulder, and no matter how hard he tried, his lids kept sliding closed.

America chuckled as he wrapped an arm around his brother's shoulders.

"Just sleep, Mattie, okay? We can see it tomorrow, I promise. We have all the time we want."

Canada barely heard him, his weary body and mind having finally succumbed to sleep. The last thing he was aware of was his brother's warm body supporting him, strong and solid. It felt just as safe as it had when he had been only a child.

 **~BONUS~**

"Hey, Mattie, how old are you?"

Canada looked up from the cup of maple-scented tea he had been stirring.

"You know when I became independent, don't you? Do the math."

"Of course I know that!" America answered hurriedly, afraid to hurt his brother's feelings. "I meant your _human_ age. Like, I'm nineteen. Are you eighteen or seventeen?"

"Oh," Matthew looked surprised. "That. I'm seventeen. I thought you knew, that's why I can't drive when we are in Europe."

Alfred suddenly realized that that was the reason he had though Matthew to be seventeen, too. Why hadn't he been sure, then? … _Oh!_

"But… We always go drinking together in Montreal. Shouldn't you be at least eighteen to drink alcohol?"

Matthew shot him a look.

"Well," he said slowly, "We are nations, it doesn't really count. And I never drink that much, anyway."

Alfred shook his head.

"But you need to show your ID when you order alcohol. If you…"

He suddenly stopped, his eyes widening.

He had never seen Matthew show his ID in a bar because Matthew had never needed to do it. _Alfred_ had always been the one ordering the drinks, talking to the bartender and proving his age. And in his excitement to be actually allowed to drink, he had even done so willingly, while his little brother simply accepted what he ordered for both of them.

Basically, _he had been using him as a free pass to get alcohol all along._

Canada's lips curved into a small, sheepish smile as Alfred gaped at him.

"MATTIE!"

 **(word count: 8,176)**

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 **Notes** **:**

102.02 °F = 38.9 °C

Aand this is why I shouldn't post anything until I've completely finished it, especially not if I'm doing 8 hours a day of internship in the meantime. Sorry for the delay, this chapter was meant to be way shorter, but it just… kept going. I even wrote part of it in a notebook during the internship (I have a very small writing, and the other pharmacists barely speak any English anyway, they thought I was taking notes). Ironically, I was freezing. At one point my tutor even gave up and let us use the pot intended for galenic formulations to make some tea. Not exactly the right setting for this story, but oh well…

Anyway, I'm almost sure that this chapter is horrible. I just wanted America and Canada to understand each other, and I wanted to show the way I see their bond and their personalities, and I just… I don't even know what I did. I'm really sorry, I basically wrote a 16k words fanfic on _nothing_. Oh well, maybe somebody will like it anyway?

Lastly, a note on Canada's apparently bipolar behaviour. One of the symptoms of overheating is irritability, that's why he snapped like that at America (and he has been shown doing so in canon, actually), but I think he'd feel guilty about it if he realized he hurt America's feelings.

Please please tell me what you think. If I write here it's because I'm trying to improve, you know?

* * *

 **IMPORTANT NOTE!** **The sequel is now up! It's called** ** _White Lies_** **, and it deals with the plot thread that had been left hanging in this story. I hope you'll enjoy it as well!**


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